


Where The Edges Bleed

by Still_beating_heart



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: And not feed into the social stigma surrounding mood disorders, Bipolar Disorder, Bipolar Ian Gallagher, Canon Themes Apply, How about as a fandom we just agree to respect the issues, M/M, Married Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich, Mentions of Milkovich family fucked-upness, POV Ian Gallagher, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-04-27
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:15:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23758954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Still_beating_heart/pseuds/Still_beating_heart
Summary: You won't find fluff here, but it's pretty soft considering the subject matter.  On a scale of light to heavy it's probably a six.------------Ian wakes to watch the hand pressed against his. The hand fidgeting with the wedding band on his ring finger.There was a time when he knew where he ended and Mickey began.“Morning,” his voice sounds distant, crusty with a night of too much sleep, heavy with the weight of sedatives.The hand bends, fingers curve. Linking around Ian’s. His wedding band clinks against Mickey’s.There was a time when Ian knew where he began and Mickey ended.“Morning,” the breath on his neck rising goosebumps. Swaying through his hair and tickling his scalp with warmth and familiarity.There was a time when the edges were brick and mortar. Hard, defined. There was a time when the edges were rusty barbed wire and broken chainlink fences. Dangerous and twisted.Fingers twitch against Ian’s. Tightening their grip. The protective arc of his arm grounding.There was a time when the edges were real. And a time when the edges were delusion.------------
Relationships: Ian Gallagher & Mickey Milkovich, Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 11
Kudos: 74





	Where The Edges Bleed

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know your triggers. Know the characters, and read the tags.

Where The Edges Bleed

There used to be a time when he knew where he ended and Mickey began. 

A time when he could look at his own reflection in the bathroom mirror and not see Mickey’s face looking at him over his shoulder.

A time when he could start a sentence without Mickey having to finish it for him.

There was a time before juvie and before the rape and before the forced marriage and before he ran away, there was a time when he knew where he began and Mickey ended.

A time when he could sleep at night without the warmth of his body in his arms and scent of his hair against his nose. Without the beating of his heart, beating red and rhythmic, wanting to leap from his own ribcage and live in Mickey’s forever where it was safer. 

There was a time when he knew where the edges were. What part of him was his own and what part of him was Mickey’s. There was a time when his hands only knew the surface of flesh. Where his fingerprints weren’t swirled lines against pale skin. 

And there was a time when his delusions weren’t his own. But Mickey’s too. When they sat crossed-legged on the floor. Holding hands between them and repeating what was reality. What was reality. What was it then? Was it the fear of Terry and the pain of being stuck in place? What was it then? Was it the feel of his hands on Ian’s skin, running through his hair and his lips on his forehead? Was it running from the cops and stealing to eat? Was it drugs and dancing? Was it glitter and the sway of the crowd?

What was reality then? Was it his face in the lights of the club? Was it his reluctance to allow himself to receive the love Ian wanted so badly to give him? 

There was a time that his delusions weren’t his own but Mickey’s too. They were a kidnapped baby and road trip. They were a need for more, more more. Always more. No matter how much he gave, Ian always needed more. More, more, more. An itch he couldn’t scratch and it was Mickey’s too. 

There was a time when his edges were raw and wounded. There was a time when his edges were hard and solid. There was a time when his edges were broken and bleeding between them. Glossing everything in sticky red and brown and shades of violence. There was a time when his edges were jagged sharp glass. When his edges were broken shattered glass on the floor. In the space between them. In the space where the edges bleed. 

Ian’s fingers reach out, skate across the line where the edges bleed. Trace over skin speckled with freckles. The ones he’s had memorized for years. The ones he presses lips against every chance he gets. 

The dim Spring sun is trying in a lame attempt to light the room in rich shades of gold. Skirting over pale flesh, catching in every dimple and every dip. Every curve and every edge. Ian’s fingers follow the lines painted in yellow. Catching on light hairs and dripping into the divot of his elbow. 

His hand turns under the pillow, the string of his forearms flexing and stretching. His voice a sleep gruff grumble, “still sleepin’ shithead.”

“Mmm,” against the back of his neck, watching his skin dimple in goosebumps as his exhale flutters across it, “noticed,” the heat of his body a halo that Ian has pressed himself into. A halo where the edges bleed. Where there is no end and there is no beginning.

The place where Ian spends his life. The place where everything is calm. Still and present. The place where the sweat mingles and the salt leaves traces of where he’s been. 

There was a time when Ian would have taken this no as a rejection. When he would have run off and found somewhere else, someone else. There was a time when his ego would have been wounded. When his drive would have been in overdrive. 

But now. His arm encircles Mickey’s body. Warm and soft, still on the ledge of sleep. He breathes in the scent of him. Watches the back of his head. The way his breath moves through dark hair. Gaze flitting over the curve of his ear, the jut of his jaw, the arch of his cheekbones. Face half-buried in the pillow. 

His hand appears from under the pillow, rests on top. Palm up. Open. Every dark pink line and every callous cupped in the light of morning. Which one is the life line? Which one is love? Ian’s fingers trace over both of them. Watching how Mickey’s fingers twitch in response. The white pillow case wrinkled, creased. Imprinted with his hand and his face. 

The pads of his fingers slide down to Mickey’s wrist next. Those delicate lines, tendons. Soft, thin layers of skin. Blue veins like tributaries.

There was a time when the edges were rusty barbed wire. Broken chain links. Sharp and dangerous.

“I’ll make coffee,” sighing, watching what it does to Mickey’s hair, to his skin.

He burrows deeper into the pillow, “mmpf,” a clear, ‘damn right you will’. 

Ian’s lips press a brand against the nape of his neck. Reluctantly leaving the cocoon of their bed.

———————

There was a time when the edges were walls. Brick and mortar. Piled up and layered. 

He watches the drip, drop, drip of the coffee into the carafe. Listens for the butter in the pan to start hissing. Cracks an egg and watches it turn from transparent to white. In a breath.

There was a time when the edges were fine china. Easily broken, tenuous boundaries between two souls. 

He watches as Mickey stumbles out of the bedroom. Sleep mused and half-dressed. Dragging his feet to the bathroom. 

There was a time when the coffee mug was his. Not theirs. Where the edges bleed, the mug belongs to whoever picks it up. Steaming where it’s perched at the edge of the counter.

———————

There was a time when silence was deafening. When it meant he’d gone too far. Too fast. Too hard. Too much. When it meant he’d done his next stupid shit again. And no one knew what to say. How to touch. How to look.

It’s peaceful. The quiet. The place where the edges are soft. Supple and luxurious. Where there’s no need for words. And no strain for comfort.

His cheek is grooved against the jut of Mickey’s pelvic bone. Like they were one thing, once. Broken apart a long time ago and only made whole when together. 

He’s certain he can see the granules of his own sweat salt drying on the surface of Mickey’s belly. The flat plains of skin beneath his bellybutton. Where pale meets the dark triangle of curly hair. 

Ian’s fingers slide over his thigh. Rest on his pelvis, draw circles on the flat of his belly. Trace towards his bellybutton. Then swoop down, thumbing through his course hair, resting idly over his softened cock. 

There’s a bead of cum drying on his chest, one he missed when he wiped them off. One that catches his eye when they trail over his ribs. One by one. Every arc and sway of bone beneath skin. Linger on the pink nub of his nipple, trail his own name over his heart. Heart beating, slow, easy, calm. Beating. Beating a slow drum. Beating a simple pattern. Beat, breathe. 

Ian watches it reverberate through his chest. Ribcage strong and sturdy. He wonders how strong his skin truly is. To withstand a childhood like his. How the delicate appearance where it’s pulled fine and thin over vital internals, is a lie. To Ian’s eyes that skin is weak, easy to rip, to bare what lies beneath. But to the touch and his knowledge, he knows better. He knows what that skin has withstood. 

He is an enigma. 

He watches his belly rise, quiver a little with the breath that halts for a moment when Ian’s hand slips over his groin. When he turns his face to press lips against sweat-dried skin. 

There was a time when the edges were finite. Unbendable. Unbreakable. 

He tracks the dip of his belly with his lips. Resting fingers on the wrinkled skin of his balls. Thumb pressed to the hollow of his groin. 

——————

There was a time when the need overwhelmed the want. When the compulsion overtook the love. There was a time when the choice no longer existed.

He watches Mickey lift the fork to his lips. The bite of dinner disappears into the deep red recesses of his mouth. Beyond the white of his teeth. Back towards that broken one. The one that Ian loves to run his tongue over sometimes. Feeling the weight of that night with the worn piece of bone. 

He watches his jaw tense and relax as he chews, swallows. Brings the beer bottle to his lips. Pink pout around the glass rim. Those lips. Another enigma. Perfectly innocent and sweet lips. But not a word out of them has ever been. 

Ian feels himself smile. Watching Mickey do the same. 

There was a time when his thoughts were his own.

——————

He walks down the sidewalk. Where the snow has melted during the days. Iced over at night. Dirty chunks of what used to be winter remaining on the sidewalks. 

Mickey’s hand slides into his at the corner. In time the swing of his arm. It slides in, it slides out. It swings with the sway of his swagger. It slides in. It slides out. 

There was a time when his hand was his own. When it had never felt the squeeze of those callouses and etched lines of life and love. 

——————

They exit the Alibi at the end of the night. The sidewalks empty. Shadows and echoes of the city night around them. 

The flick of Mickey’s lighter and the orange glow of the tip of the cig. He smirks around it, lets the smoke roll out of his nose and jerks his head towards the apartment. 

There was a time when Ian knew where he ended and where Mickey began. He leans in and down. Meeting that smirk as soon as the cig is removed. Tasting beer and nicotine. Neither nearly as addictive as the distinct flavor of Mickey beneath that. 

——————

There was a time when impulses overwhelmed desires. When control was never a thing he strived for.

He steps out of his damp boots on the mat. Watches as Mickey steps out of one, takes a step into the apartment. Leaves a muddy track on the floor. Then steps out of the other. 

There was a time when he cared about muddy tracks on the floor. When he would have been wiping them up before they could dry, “c’mon Mick,” he groans. Kicking the boot back towards the mat as he steps over the first.

A middle finger is the only response as he stumbles towards the bedroom. The sound of his belt buckle jangling. 

Ian smirks. There was a time when he would have expected Mickey to still be awake by the time he got to the bedroom.

——————

There was a time when he knew where Mickey began and he ended.

There was a time when the edges were clear and definable. 

He watches the ball of his shoulder. The city streetlights filtering in through the window. Making him a yellow shade of white. His eyes trace the constellation of freckles. His fingers reach out to do the same. 

His cheek meets the pillow. Chest meets his back. Arm slides under his neck. A muffled curse the only thing that parts his lips. But his body curves. His body curves the lines of Ian’s body. 

There was a time when he knew where he ended and Mickey began.

The edges used to be sharp sometimes. Even when they were invisible. Now the edges bleed. Blur. Become fog.

——————

He watches the way his lids flutter. The way his eyes move beneath the pale covering. The way his lashes quirk right before they press so tight and Ian’s name parts his lips. The way they roll back, then open and flood. The ocean of all the things Ian has always wanted to immerse himself in.

The way his head pushes back further into the pillow before his hand rises and lands on the back of Ian’s neck. Pulling him closer. The way his whole body shudders and his face twists into something desperate for just a split second before his lips are met with crushing desire.

There was a time when desire meant nothing. There was a time when compulsion was the only thing. 

Hands burning brands into the back of Ian’s neck. Tongue slipping over tongue. Sliding between parted lips and tracing teeth. Delving into the warmth and thick flavor of him. Never wanting to rise back to the surface. Surfaces are breakable. Easily shattered by a pebble on a pond. Ripples that widen and overtake.

——————

There was a time when Ian could sit on the couch alone. Watch TV or thumb through his phone. When his body wasn’t yearning for the warmth of the one next to him. 

He sets is phone down on the coffee table. Steals a handful of popcorn out of the bowl on Mickey’s lap. Gets a grunted growl and a hand swatting. 

He laughs with a salty mouthful and leans to plant a buttery kiss against his barely stubbled cheek. His arm winds around broad shoulders, hand relaxed on the curve of his deltoids.

This space is where the edges bleed. When they find a rhythmic calm. An even breath. A warm embrace. A stable home.

——————

There was a time when Ian knew where he began and Mickey ended. 

The strength of his legs wrapped around Ian’s hips. Heels dug into the backs of his knees. Rough, cracked, and calloused. The way they lose rhythm and control. When they start digging in so hard it hurts. 

When his hands on Ian’s shoulder blades are bruising. When he can’t get enough. When there’s only so much. When desire is a steady flame. Dancing gentle sway in a dark night.

When his mouth on Ian’s is searing. When the edges have bled so much they’ve disappeared completely.

——————

Ian watches his fingers. As he opens the pill bottle top. Drops one into his palm. 

Opens the next bottle. The moment they turn white with effort. Then red. The tiny strings of muscle in those thin digits. The fine black lines of ink. 

A second pill in his palm. 

He watches his hand. Cupped for the third pill. The wedding ring that’s scratched from years of wear and tear.

He meets his eyes across the table. A lazy summer sky. Lying on his back watching a bubble float by.

There was a time when reality blurred. And delusions were real.

There was a time when the colors were too bright. And the world was too big. 

There was a time when there was never enough. Never enough.

He smiles when he opens his hand on the table. Waiting for Mickey’s to drop the pills, careful and round, into his palm. His lingers overtop for a moment. The heat of his body and soul caressing Ian into a spark of flame, the pills to control the wildfire before it can take down hundreds of acres.

When the edges bleed, he’s here. With a strength he’s always possessed under the shield of snark and the armor of bruised, scarred flesh.

When the edges bleed, he’s the hand stroking through Ian’s hair. He’s the lips meeting his head. He’s the gruff and gentle demand, “go to bed firecrotch. You’ll feel better when you wake up.”

Ian rises from the table. Takes the gatorade with him, stops in the doorway, “you comin’?”

When the edges bleed, he’s the body behind Ian’s in bed. The warmth coiled into his core. He’s the hand lying possessive against his heart. Regulating his rhythm. Reminding him of where the edges are. The edges that are blurred and fogged, but there bleeding between them. When the delusion is reality and reality is the delusion, Mickey is that bleeding edge that Ian can always find.

——————

Ian wakes to watch the hand pressed against his. The hand fidgeting with the wedding band on his ring finger. 

There was a time when he knew where he ended and Mickey began.

“Morning,” his voice sounds distant, crusty with a night of too much sleep, heavy with the weight of sedatives. 

The hand bends, fingers curve. Linking around Ian’s. His wedding band clinks against Mickey’s. 

There was a time when Ian knew where he began and Mickey ended. 

“Morning,” the breath on his neck rising goosebumps. Swaying through his hair and tickling his scalp with warmth and familiarity. 

There was a time when the edges were brick and mortar. Hard, defined. There was a time when the edges were rusty barbed wire and broken chainlink fences. Dangerous and twisted.

Fingers twitch against Ian’s. Tightening their grip. The protective arc of his arm grounding.

There was a time when the edges were real. And a time when the edges were delusion.

——————

Ian watches the smile rise on Mickey’s lips. The way it lights up his entire face. The way his eyes grow softer the longer he looks at him.

There was a time when Ian could exist without that smile. Without seeing that smile every single day. There was a time when he had to. There was even a time when he wanted to.

But now Ian exists in that place where the edges bleed. When the smirk bleeds into a smile. The smile into a grin. 

Ian doesn't know where he ends and where Mickey begins. Or where Mickey ends and Ian begins. What he knows is where the edges bleed. Where they were once two things. And now they only exist as one.

**Author's Note:**

> I guess it's time to finish the open works and move on down the road.
> 
> Kudos, comments, or kick rocks. Thanks friends, take care of yourselves!


End file.
